


Liar, Liar

by dearg0d



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Fluff, Modern Setting, Multi, Murder, Private Investigator AU, Richie is a bastard, also reddie, and everyone has fucked everyone, and heavily implied stenbrough but no, ben is in love, benverly appreciation, bev is a bad bitch, but we stan none the less, listen its gonna get intense, my boy ben is bad at his job, vaguely sexual content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-07-04 20:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15848379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearg0d/pseuds/dearg0d
Summary: Benjamin Hanscom is in love with the married woman he’s investigating. Beverly Marsh is an unpredictable mystery. Richie and Eddie are on the run and Bill Denbrough is obsessed with a married man. That is not where the bullshittery ends.





	1. January.

Ben Hanscom was alone. 

He always had been, and never desired to change this. That lifestyle worked for him, and he didn’t particularly care that people thought of this as peculiar - it was far from it, because it was all he had ever known. 

Plus, being alone was part of his job. And his job was his life.

He had other things that mattered, but in a field like his own, an intense focus on work was vital, and he enjoyed it enough to willingly dedicate the majority of his time to working cases. When he did take a day off, once in a blue moon, Ben would find himself contacting his friends for lunch dates or driving down to see his Mother. 

Other times, he would spend nights bedding women.

Sex was something of a guilty pleasure to Ben. In his younger years, he had always believed that women would never find him attractive enough to sleep with, and somehow accepted the idea that he would remain a virgin for life. As he got older, the puppy fat from his childhood disappeared, along with most of his insecurities. 

He was twenty three years old when he first fucked a woman. And since then, his interest in sex had only increased. Seven years on, Ben Hanscom was considered something of a _whore._ He did not recall how many people he had slept with, nor the names or faces of a large portion of said women. That was how he preferred it - meaningless. 

It had always been meaningless too. Ben didn’t really do dating, instead opting for one night stands and 'friends with benefits' situations. He had never tried dating, but always believed that it wasn’t for him - that it couldn’t be for him. There were more than a fair few reasons for this, but most of them came back down to his deep insecurities and the crippling fear of rejection. He tried not to put too much thought into it. When not entirely set on work, his brain only really focused on friends and/or fucking. He was perfectly happy with that arrangement.

His most recent fuck though, was something beyond his average, and Ben had found himself returning to her an embarrassing number of times. He told himself it was because of her undeniable beauty, and to an extent, it was. She stood tall and confident, which Ben figured was understandable from someone so exquisite. Her orange hair was snipped short and curly, face dotted with freckles matching, and complemented by deep brown eyes. Ben caught himself transfixed on those fairly often. Her face was Ben’s idea of perfection too, soft features carved to perfection. 

Then, there was the sex. Ben, experienced enough, had a lot of good sex. He thought he had seen it all, done it all. That had been incorrect, as this woman _rocked his fucking world._ She fucked like she was forever trying to prove something, with the passion and enthusiasm of someone with an important aim - to please (and please she did). Their bodies fit together perfectly, to a degree that made Ben question whether he genuinely belonged there - willingly held between her long, pale legs. She sounded angelic too, moaning out his name like it was something omnipotent. 

Ben Hanscom didn’t do love, but he knew somewhere that for this woman, he would have made an exception. The fucked up thing? _He didn’t even know her name._

That had been acceptable, at first, before he needed their fling to become a regular occurrence. She knew his name, had learnt it after answering his cell phone to hear a loud voice yelling it out, but Ben didn’t mind. They knew nothing about each other, only how to work each other’s bodies like it was their sole purpose in life. Ben figured, considering it was just sex, that any more information about their lives was unneeded. They made small talk, always, and the more they made, the more he found himself biting back curious questions about her life. 

He knew that her favourite month was January, which earned her the nickname Jan. He also knew that she was big into fashion, poetry and horror. Jan knew that Ben loved romance and books, and was intelligent beyond belief. She too had to stop herself from asking questions, from arranging meet ups and calling him for more sweet small talk or sweeter sex.

Her name was Beverly Marsh. And she was a married woman, wed to a piece of shit that she had settled for ten years prior, believing that nobody else could, nor would, ever love her. In her defence, Beverly had never claimed to love him back. It had always been a loveless marriage, on both ends, because the only thing Tom had ever loved about his wife was her body, not her brain - which was certainly more beautiful. Tom knew this, and it scared him. Their entire relationship, he had found ways to hold her back, to stop her from doing better, to control her. 

Until Ben Hanscom came along, he had been successful. But since? Beverly had found freedom, or at least the closest thing she had ever known to that. Meeting up with Ben was one of the few things she looked forward to, that and her job. It was dangerous, she knew, to enjoy another man so much. At first, she had expected it to be nothing more than a one time fling, a quick get-off to keep her going. That had been four months ago. It was safe to say, this was not a quick get-off, far from it. 

And it was dangerous.

Beverly did not think she could fall for the quiet, sweet man she rode twice a week, but she did. And it panicked her. Beverly called off the arrangement, and Ben pretended like he didn’t mind, even when she spat some bullshit excuse about work getting in the way. He couldn’t mind, he told himself, because they were just fucking.

And then they weren’t. And it was back to being lonely - not that he hadn’t not been lonely - just maybe a little less so when January had laid by his side until dusk. 

He moved on with ease, finding another woman to bed only one week after. Beverly did the same, knowing that after such an experience, she couldn’t continue only having Tom. She didn’t want Tom at all, and he didn’t want her. He wanted to control her, hurt her, ruin her. That knowledge made it easy for her to run into the night with strangers. 

She knew he was suspicious, she didn’t particularly care. That was a mistake, maybe her biggest since marrying Tom. 

-

Ben Hanscom was alone. 

Again.

He had just finished yet another job, cracked a case that the police had failed, and was ten thousand dollars up. He felt good, happy, satisfied. It was always thrilling completing a case. It hadn’t been a big one, just a small missing persons case, that the NYPD had ignored - rightfully. Ben had known, two days into the job, that this was a runaway. He had done what he had been paid to though, and found the woman. 

He was half tempted to take a week off in celebration, fly out to Cali or somewhere hot with one of his sides. Usually, that would have been alright. Not this time. 

One day after his last job, another call came through. 

Ben was a lowkey guy. His business was small and underground, mostly because he often crossed over lines of the law, but he was good at what he did. People used his services to stalk, to spy, to learn. He wasn’t an average detective, which was kind of the point. He didn’t want to be - putting away bad guys would have been wrong considering the amount of criminal friends he hung with. Private investigating was much more his forte, and the lifestyle that it came with suited him.

He had business cards and an office, but he didn’t need to. Ben had a cell phone and skill so impressive that word of mouth was the only thing needed. When he got this particular phone call, he assumed that was how the client had stumbled across him.

“Is this Ben?” The voice on the line asked. 

“It is,” He confirmed, “Who am I speaking to? Can I help you?” 

“Yes, actually,” The man replied, “My name is Tom Rogan. And I think my wife is having an affair.” 

-

Three hours later, Ben Hanscom was in yet another strangers house. It was an old, large building on the corner of a block filled with almost identical homes. The decor was nice too, stylish and fresh, something close to that one might find in a show home. Ben liked it, but there was something off about the place. It didn’t feel like a home, not at all. In fact, Ben felt rather uncomfortable as he sat on the couch, a black cat crouched by his feet.

“Ignore that,” Tom Rogan said, motioning to the pet, “He’s my wife’s, can’t fuckin’ stand the thing, but it was a cat or a kid.” 

“Ah,” Ben said, feigning interest, “I don’t mind them.” He picked up on the comment, naturally. A cat or a kid. His wife clearly wasn’t interested in starting a family with him, so that checked one box for the whole affair theory. Maybe she really wasn’t in it for the long run, or maybe she just hated children. At that point, Ben knew either were likely. 

He had always wanted children. It was one of the things he thought about in the early hours of the morn, when his mind would not rest and his body would not still. The fantasy of having his own family seemed almost silly considering the lifestyle he had settled for, but that didn’t stop him wondering. His heart warmed at the idea of raising a child, of loving and nurturing another person, with someone he loved equally as much. Ben had a lot of love to give.

“I don’t want nothing to do with that thing,” Tom scoffed, “Don’t even remember what she called it.” 

“Right,” Ben said, “Tell me more about her. I’m talking important stuff though, and the basics. Name, age, occupation, friends.” 

“I have it all ready for you,” Tom explained, motioning to a black file sat on top of the coffee table. "Even got you a suspect, the other guy. Been preparing for a couple of weeks now, figured written down saves time.”

“It does.” Ben reached out, taking the folder from the table. He ran one finger down the front, plain black plastic, and then looked back to the man sat across from him. “Thank you, very considerate. Do you mind if I read through all of this now?” 

“Might take you a while,” Tom shrugged, “I’d rather you just wait. Do you need anything else from me?”

“Money,” Ben chimed, raising his eyebrows. They’d discussed finance on the phone, and Tom had not seemed best pleased about the price, but he was in no position to complain. Ben needed a lot if he was going to put his conscience through stalking a woman for her asshole of a husband. The moral side of things didn’t tend to bother him too much though, not anymore. And regardless, judging by the presentation of Tom himself, and the size of his fucking house, he was in no position to complain about money. 

“Half now, quarter during, quarter after?” Tom said, reciting the earlier agreement. Ben nodded, watching as the man pulled a white envelope from his blazer. He handed it to Ben, and Ben smiled as he saw the thickness. He much preferred cash to cheques. 

“I’ll be in touch,” Ben said, sliding both the folder and the envelope into his briefcase. For the most part, Ben Hanscom was not a briefcase kind of man, but he figured he had to look the part, and it often worked in his favour. 

Ben took one last glimpse around the house before he took off home, still slightly bothered by the uncomfortable energy there. One thing he had noticed was the lack of personal things. It was entirely a show home as far as Ben could tell, not a spec of dust out of place, but also not a single photograph in sight. He hadn’t gone round the entire house, but the downstairs, he assumed, would be a deep enough insight into the rest of the abode. He pitied the people that lived there. 

By the time he did get back to his own apartment, Ben was incredibly eager to jump straight into the case. He took the folder out and opened it up, appreciating the effort that had clearly gone into it. 

Everything that Ben needed to know about the woman he was investigating was sat on a page in a plastic wallet. Tom had really paid attention to detail, leaving everything from the address of her office, to the numbers and home addresses of her closest friends, to her favourite coffee joint. There wasn’t a thing Ben needed to ask for confirmation off of Tom, as everything was written out for him. 

Her name was Beverly Marsh (Tom explained that she was stubborn, too stubborn to take his name in marriage). She was thirty, which made her the same age as Ben, and worked as a stylist for a big media firm in the city. Her work hours were also listed, but he noted that her overtime had suddenly massively increased. Tom also noted where she went for lunch and her habits on the three days a week that she didn’t work. Beverly was a fan of horror movies and poetry. She attended a book club once a week, for which the address was listed, and had weekly lunch dates with a childhood friend - something Tom had explained especially worried him. 

Ben took all of the information in, and there was a lot. He acknowledged, before turning to the final page, that Beverly was an impressive woman, a woman he imagined he would find it easy to be fascinated by. A woman he would feel especially bad investigating behind her back. 

Then there was the man Tom believed her to be sleeping with, though he highlighted on this page that this man was probably not the only one. There was a photograph, Ben was curious as to where Tom had acquired that, of the man holding a cigarette, sat in bed. It was the kind of photo only a lover would take, which made Ben wonder whether Tom had discovered this among Bev's things - made a mental note to ask - and then read up on the man. He was called Stanley Uris, and worked in an office, though Tom had never discovered his actual job. There was little else on the man, but Ben didn't think that was an issue. A name was all he ever really needed, and he had more than that - he had a face. 

Ben took a few notes, and then, he turned the final page in the file, where four photographs sat. Four photographs of a woman that Ben knew, all too well, was definitely impressive. A woman he had been forever fascinated by. The most beautiful woman, he thought, that he had ever seen. Tom Rogan's wife. 

_January._

Except, that wasn’t her name at all. She was Beverly Marsh, and she was a strong, hard working woman trapped in an unhappy marriage with only a cat and a book club for comfort. 

Ben had always wanted to know more about her, but he never imagined he would learn more like this. He never imagined anything so absurd, and he despised that, knowing and finally understanding why she had shielded her true self so much. He felt like he should have been angry, but Ben didn’t feel a shred of it. 

The only emotion he registered was worry. And maybe the slightest drop of guilt, as he realised that this situation would not be an easy one to get out of. Ben had handled a lot of fucked up cases, but never one like this, never to such a personal extent. To put it simply, he had never fucked the wife of a client before. He had never fucked someone only to have to investigate them either. Ben wasn’t sure which one was more fucked up.


	2. Identity Theft Is Not A Joke, Richie.

Ben knew he didn’t have an option. He would have to tell Beverly about what was going on, about her husband hiring him to track her, and that was something he didn’t even have to ponder, it was obvious. He wanted to tell her, knew he had to, for several reasons, the main being that he had far too much respect for her to actually go through with such a thing. Doing this to strangers was easy, but knowing that Beverly deserved none of this meant he couldn’t comfortably do it.

But even if he had wanted to do it, he couldn’t. She would recognise him, and he would be caught out. He could have told Tom Rogan this as soon as he saw the photograph, could have explained that no research needed to be done - Ben already knew that Beverly was having an affair, a fair few evidently. He couldn’t do that either, call her out, once again due to the mass amount of respect he had for the woman in question, but also because he feared what would happen if Tom really did know about the affair for a fact. He didn’t seem like a gentle man, and the fact he had even hired Ben in the first place spoke volumes of his possessive, potentially psychotic behaviours. If he knew for certain, Beverly would be in danger, and Ben didn’t doubt that even a bit. 

So Ben didn’t know what to do at all, really. He figured his best bet was to play along for Tom, get his money, but inform Beverly of what he was doing. He could encourage her to leave him, help her to do so. Ben wondered why she hadn’t already, and instinctively knew there had to be a darker reason for that. She needed his help, he assumed. 

The first step was getting in contact with her. Ben had all the details, but that wasn’t enough. He knew that Beverly wouldn’t want to meet with him if he called out of the blue - she had been insistent when things ended that they shouldn’t stay in touch, that she couldn’t see him again. It hurt his heart a little to think about, she had put a lot of emphasis on that point. Ben knew if he wanted to reconnect, a need more so than a want, then he would have to fabricate a situation. This was easier said than done. 

Strangely enough, Ben began the investigation as he normally would have. He didn’t want to push too far, but he did need to know what she was up to in order to get a clearer picture before he approached the topic with her.

In the file, Tom had explained his reasoning for believing that Beverly was cheating, and pointed out the sudden and sudden change in her schedule, he had also documented strange comments she had made and other small different behaviours she had exhibited. Reading back through, knowing it was about his January, made him almost shake with rage, but also worry, because this woman was going home to a man who had built up an entire file of evidence against her, and then hired someone to stalk her. Beverly deserved better, Ben knew. And that made him want to work all the harder. 

It took Ben Hanscom twenty minutes on google to find Stanley Uris. There was minimal information on his life on his social media, all of which were private (Ben knew how to break that barrier, with ease) but after more research, and the tiniest bit of illegal online activity, Ben found more. There wasn’t a single photo of him alone on his profile, and he didn’t seem to be at all active on any mainstream social media sites. Most surprisingly, he found a Grindr profile. At first glance, Ben didn’t think this to be out of the ordinary, except that this man stated he was gay in the bio. Suspicious, but not absurd.

Ben continued looking the guy up, doing intense background checks that lead to nowhere. He seemed to be a relatively simple guy, nothing like the people Ben usually had to scan up on. Everything was easy enough to find too, and within an hour of researching Ben had got a number for the office in which Stanley worked. Ten minutes after that, he was on hold with Stan’s receptionist waiting to be put through.

He hadn’t planned out everything he was going to say, but he had a rough idea in his mind, and it wasn’t like he had to worry about that too much. He had also considered the possibility that this man might not even know Beverly Marsh, maybe he knew January, or some other version of her. Ben was cautious, had to be in his field, and was using a private number, he also tended to tweak his accent slightly when he spoke on the phone, though messing with his voice wasn’t a strong skill of his, he tended to manage during phone calls or for short periods of time. 

When he was finally put through to Stanley, Ben felt nervous. This was peculiar for one reason and one reason alone - Ben never got nervous, not with things like this. Phone calls? Research? That was the easy part, and not once in his entire career had he found himself feeling so full of nerves over something so simple. He knew why, of course, he knew it was because this case was different. 

“Stanley Uris?” Ben began, acquiring a New York accent. 

“Speaking,” The man replied. Ben couldn’t gather much from his voice, but it sounded soft, calm.

“I require your help, Mr Uris,” Ben began,“I think you know a friend of mine.” That was a weird way to put it, he supposed, but there was no other way to label it. 

“Oh really,” Stanley replied, voice still chipper. Ben figured this may not be out of the ordinary for him, as he was clearly still in business mode. “Did somebody recommend me to you?” 

“It wasn’t quite like that,” Ben said, a cryptic reply to say the least. Ben swore he heard the man gulp.

“Who am I speaking to?” He asked, caution laced in his tone. 

“My name is Bradley Harper,” Ben lied still maintaining the accent. It was an alias he used often, and even had ID’s and bank cards with the name on. It came in useful to have a fake identity, especially in his field, especially when fucking with the law. “You don’t know me, but I know you, and I need your help.” 

_“What the…”_ The man on the other end of the phone sounded completely bewildered, which Ben figured was understandable considering how little he knew about the situation. Stanley continued to speak, rambling quickly, “What the fuck is this about? How do you- I- Fuck- Am I in danger? Who are you? How did you-” 

“I’d like you meet with you,” Ben cut in, his voice calm and composed in contrast. “In a public place, of course. If you trust me, you won’t be in danger, but someone else is. And that’s why I need you to be to cooperative, Stanley, do you think you can do that?” 

“What if I refuse?” Stan asked, but the way his voice cracked told Ben that maybe this man didn’t really want to know about that. Ben was not a violent man, only ever acting so in self defence, but Stanley Uris did not know that. In fact, Stanley Uris knew nothing, and that terrified him.

“Someone we both care about gets hurt,” Ben explained, though he didn’t really know if this man cared about Beverly at all. It was entirely possible that she was just a quick fuck to him, as much as the idea of that bothered Ben. “I’m not out to get you, Stanley. I’m not the person you need to worry about.” 

There was a silence then, ended by a very heavy sigh from Stanley. “Who is this about?”

“Beverly Marsh,” Ben said, and he need not expand. Another silence, longer that time. 

“Come by my office in an hour,” Stan replied, voice small and shaky, “It’s-“

“I’ll see you then,” Ben cut in, before hanging up. He didn’t plan on waiting, knowing it would take near enough an hour just to get there if traffic was bad. He practically leaped across the apartment, throwing the files into his briefcase before leaving. 

It took Ben half an hour to drive to the office building, and he didn’t bother waiting the other thirty minutes as Stanley had requested, instead going straight into the building and into the elevator. It was the seventh floor. 

Once again, he hadn’t really prepared a speech, or put a lot of thought into what he was going to say at all. He knew what he needed to say, of course, but Ben wasn’t sure how to phrase it all without telling Stanley everything, without blowing it all. He couldn’t trust this man, he reminded himself, because this man was probably in deep with Beverly. He knew her name, which told Ben this man had made it further than he ever did.

Ben knew just from the single photo alone that this man was attractive, disgustingly so. Stanley had borderline black hair that sat in loose, messy curls on the top of his head. He had serious eyes and a sharp jaw, and a body that even Ben could appreciate, though he looked extremely skinny. In the photograph Ben had seen, Stanley was smoking a cigarette, there was an empty wine bottle behind him and he was in what looked to be a sparsely decorated bedroom. From seeing the image alone, Ben did not expect Stanley to be an accountant, nor anything successful at all. 

Deep down, Ben was confused, because the man in the photograph, on appearance, was the polar opposite of Ben, and it hurt when he suddenly realised that Ben’s type just wasn’t what she wanted, just wasn’t quite good enough. Ben thought Stanley looked sexy, he had always struggled to think that highly of himself, despite being equally as sexy in different ways. 

Ben quickly learned that Stanley Uris looked very different in the light of day. In fact, Stanley Uris looked like an entirely different person, in the light of day. When he had gotten to the seventh floor, Ben was pointed to a door at the end of the corridor, and told to go straight in. He did so, knocking only twice before the door was pulled open and Ben felt himself being dragged inside. 

Upon first sight, Ben knew this was not the man in the photograph. “Stanley Uris?” The accent wasn’t present.

“Bradley Harper?” The man shot back. Ben gulped. “What happened to the voice?” 

“I’m not Bradley,” Ben confessed, too confused to truly focus on his false identity. “And you’re not Stanley.”

“I most definitely am,” Stanley said, “Why? Who did you think I was- am?” The man in front of him was far from the photograph. He looked shorter, and wasn’t quite so lanky. Though the hair was still wavy, it was much more well kept and neat, as well as about five shades lighter. His features were softer too, though his expression was far from soft - anything but, really. 

“You-“ Ben began, but cut himself off, instead simply sighing and slamming the brief case on the table, opening it and pulling out the loose photograph. Stanley stared at the image, eyes wide and mouth hung open.

“Is this the guy you’re looking for?” Stan asked, picking the photograph up. 

“I think so,” Ben said, “But it was your name- I- I don’t know how he mixed those up, I… Do you know him?” 

“He’s my best friend,” Stan replied, before throwing the image back down and sitting back at his desk. There was a silence, the cogs in Ben’s mind turning and turning as he stared at Stanley Uris, who had just thrown a fucking spanner or ten into his work. “Where did you get this? Who sent you for- What even is all of this, huh? Who the fuck are you?” 

Stan wasn’t short on questions, but Ben had a world and a half more. 

“Who is this man?” Ben asked, pointing to the photograph. 

“Don’t answer my questions with questions,” Stan protested. Ben sighed, though he wasn’t exactly surprised that Stanley wanted answers first. Ben needed him, after all, not the other way around. “Sit, I’m guessing there’s a lot we need to talk about?” 

Ben nodded and slid into the seat across from Stanley. On the phone, when Stan’s voice was shaking and he had known little about the situation, Ben felt like he had all the cards. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Stanley held himself with a confidence that he hadn’t expected, and the identity mix up really had knocked him back a few steps. Luckily, this guy seemed nice enough, Ben was hopeful.

“At least tell me who you are,” Stanley said, “And then explain what the fuck is going on.” 

“If I do that,” Ben warned, “You have to give me your word that none of this will leave your office. This is between us. If I tell you this, and you run off and tell someone, bad things will happen. We have to trust each other, I think.” Ben never found it hard to trust people, which was as naive as it was sweet considering his job.

“You have my word,” Stanley promised, because he was much too curious to not give it.

“My name is Benjamin,” He began, “And I’m a PI.” 

“Who are you investigating?” Stan asked, which was a wise question, really. 

“Beverly Marsh-“

“You’ve come to wrong place if you’re looking for answers about her,” Stan cut in, shaking his head. He looked almost shaken at the mention of her name, and there was an edge to his voice that sparked deeper curiosity in Ben. “Who sent you? How do you know about me?” 

“Are you seeing her?” Ben quizzed, “Are you fucking her?” 

“No,” Stanley spat, jumping backwards, almost as if the idea repulsed him. _“God no._ Why? Why would you-“ 

“Calm down,” Ben urged, wondering why the man was so stressed at the idea. He wasn’t sure what any of this meant, but he was sure that Beverly was a lot more complex than he had originally thought. “I just…My client has been led to believe that you- Or maybe your friend in the photograph-“

“Who’s the client?” Stan cut in. Ben knew immediately that this man clearly didn’t know of her marriage. He thought about telling him, though that was risky. Almost as risky as admitting to a stranger that he was investigating Beverly at all. 

“I can’t tell you,” Ben said, “But I’m not doing this for him. I’m doing this for her. I just, uh, I- I can’t talk to her until I know what’s going on. This is much messier than I originally thought.” 

“I’m so confused,” Stan huffed. 

“Makes two of us.” 

There was silence then, Stanley was leaning back in his chair, chewing his lip as he contemplated the situation. Ben was equally as baffled, leaning forward passing a hard stare at Stanley. Part of him was relieved that Stanley was not fucking Bev, but another part of him was only more curious as to who else was. 

“So this friend of yours,” Ben chimed, clicking back into action, “Who is he? How does he know Bev?” 

“His name is Richie Tozier,” Stan explained, “They fuck, occasionally. It’s a comfort thing, nothing serious. He models for her, and they met through mutual friends a couple of months ago.” 

Ben gulped, and hoped to God that Stanley did not noticed the way his face paled at the news Beverly was in fact fucking the guy from the photograph. A comfort thing. Ben wasn’t sure what that meant. A couple of months ago, so after she had ended things with him, which was a little easier on the heart. “How do I find him?” 

“You don’t,” Stan shrugged, simply. 

“I have to-“

“You can’t,” Stan insisted, shaking his head. Ben frowned, and Stan found himself continuing, tone lower and more cautious. “He skipped town last week. I’ve heard from him once since, message from a burner phone.” 

“Why’d he skip town?” It was the obvious question, but there were plenty more of those. 

“He wouldn’t say,” Stan sighed, eyes suddenly averting. It sounded like a lie, and Ben was good at spotting those. 

“But he told you he was leaving?” 

“No, actually,” Stan said, his eyes still fixed in the opposite direction, “His, uh, friend, called me. Rich left him some weird voicemail- He uh, only told Eddie.”

“Eddie, is that the friend?” Stanley nodded. Ben figured Eddie was not just a friend, if the way Stan hesitated when selecting a word for it was anything to go by. “Can I speak to him?” 

“If you can find him,” Stan shrugged. Ben sighed internally, unsure as to how this situation could get any more complex. “He skipped a day after Rich, went to go find him, I think.” 

“Did he say nothing at all? Do you not have any idea about why he just left?” Ben quizzed. Stan gulped. Another tell tale that he knew something. Anything was enough for Ben, he just needed a clearer picture.

“Someone was after him,” Stan confessed, and his entire frame relaxed, as if saying this took the weight from his shoulders, “I don’t know who. Nobody really knows who. Knowing Rich, it could be a whole number of people.”

“Do you think it has anything to do with Beverly?” Ben wasn’t sure that he wanted to know the answer to that, but as fate would have it, he needed it. This was his job, after all, which seemed a weird way phrase this. It wasn’t a job he was doing for Tom Rogan, he knew that much. 

“I…” Stan sighed again, then nodded. “Had to. She cut him off a day before. Rich wasn’t upset or anything, he just seemed worried, like he didn’t get it. I don’t know, I didn’t know a whole lot. He was always weirdly quiet about her, like I said, if you’re here for information on her, you’re in the wrong place.” Ben didn’t think so. 

“I’m going to have to talk to your friends,” Ben mumbled, more to himself than Stanley. 

“If you can find them,” Stan scoffed, as if he knew how hard it would be. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything, though.” 

Finding the man, for Ben, probably wouldn’t be a big issue. He wrote down both the names, then looked back over the notes he’d made. 

“Right,” Ben continued, “Moving on, I think, uh, do you have any idea as to how my client could have mixed up your identity with Richie’s?” 

“He uses my name all the time,” Stan shrugged, “Whenever he has one night stands or- anything really, he just tells them he’s Stan The Man so that they can’t trace him ever again.”

"Oh, identity theft," Ben deadpanned. 

"Not the worst crime he's committed," Stan huffed. Ben made a mental note of that, and went back to the original point. After all, this wasn't about Richie Tozier and his misidentification, this was about Beverly Marsh, and what the fuck was going on with her. 

“Did Beverly start as a one night stand?” 

“No,” Stan said, “But the guy that introduced her to him did. Bill, Bill something. I don’t remember, but I can find out. He was fucking her before Rich did. And before he fucked Rich.” 

_“Jesus,”_ Ben whispered, rolling his eyes. Stan smirked at that. “I’d appreciate it if you did find out.” 

“Easily done.” Stan pulled his cell phone out. Not even a minute later, he had the full name and cell phone number out for Ben. “He knows Bev better than anyone else I know.” 

“What’s he like?” Ben scribbled the number down. 

“Decent, I guess,” Stan said, “Fucked up though. They both are, I think. Childhood friends with traumatic pasts. They were together for a while when they were kids, I don’t know what happened. They never stopped fucking, though, from what I know.” 

“Never stopped?” Ben felt his heart drop a little. He knew it was stupid, because he and Bev were never together. He had never even known her fucking name, so to be bothered by the fact other people were enjoying her seemed a little pathetic, but Ben was sensitive like that. He always liked to think he would be the only one. 

“Neither one of them have ever been in a relationship,” Stan shrugged, which was false. Ben contemplated informing him, but decided against it. He didn’t need to know, not yet. 

“How do you know all of this?” Ben inquired. “You seem pretty well informed.” 

“I’m a well informed guy,” Stan replied, matching his tone, “Think your the only one that likes rooting ‘round in strangers business?” 

“Huh?” 

“She always astounded me,” Stan continued, “Beverly Marsh. Wouldn’t tell us her fucking name for half a month. Bill introduced her to Rich as B. First time I met her we got into an argument about using consonants as names, after a month she eventually caved and told me it was Bev. Beverly Marsh. Biggest enigma I’ve ever met.” 

There was a silence after that. Ben felt rather emotional, almost hurt. There was something strange hearing other people talk about her like that. His January was nothing how he imagined her to be. It wasn’t that he didn’t love the mystery, more than he didn’t love other people solving her faster and better than he could. 

The case of Beverly Marsh was suddenly the only one he cared to crack.

“Why are you doing this?” Ben found himself asking. “It’s not that I’m not grateful, because I am beyond that. I owe you one, seriously, I just…I don’t get it. Why? What do you gain from this?” 

The loose threat that Ben had held on the phone had no bearing, he had realised. Stanley was not doing this because he feared for Bev’s safety, that was only a small factor. He did not know Beverly enough to worry that much, and Ben had realised that pretty quickly. The fear he had heard in Stan’s voice on the phone was no longer present, much like the New York edge on his own. In reality, there should have been no trust established, yet there was. Stan was seemingly telling him his everything. Ben, as great as a detective as he was, could not understand for the life of him why that was. 

“Would you believe me if I said that I just wanted to help you?” Stanley asked, smiling softly. 

“Not really,” Ben mumbled, almost ashamed of his distrust. Stan chuckled though. 

“Smart,” Stan said, “But that’s it. That's all there is.”

_“Why?”_

Stan sighed heavily before he began. “Listen, Ben, some stranger calls my office, tells me they need my help, someone I have never met in my whole goddamn life, asking for _my_ help. Then says a load of vague shit, tells me someone I care about will get hurt. You tell me Beverly is in danger - only one week after she cuts Richie off and ghosts us all - only five days after my best friend shoots across the fucking country, because someone, fuck knows who, wants him _dead._ You think I was going to ignore that? I’m as confused and invested in this as you. Motivation aside, detective, I just want to help.” 

Ben believed him.


	3. Ten Minutes in Traffic with Your Host Beverly Marsh

Beverly Marsh was driving out of work when Bill Denbrough rang her for the sixth time that day. It was maybe the twenty fifth that week. He had stopped expecting a response, really, but this time, out of pure curiosity, and maybe a little bit of rush hour boredom, she picked up. 

“Everything okay?” She asked, because Bev had known Bill long enough to understand that he only ever really bothered calling her if things weren’t okay. And that was often enough, because he was a mess and she was always his solution. Well, sex was his solution. But they had stopped that, and Beverly felt better for it. So maybe he wasn’t calling her for answers, maybe he was calling her with questions. Beverly wasn’t a big fan of those. 

“Not really,” Bill said, and Beverly knew that was probably an understatement. “So, two things.” 

“Hit me with ‘em.” She tried to keep the concern out of her voice, she really did, but that was much harder than it seemed, even for someone as skilled at lying as her. When it came to emotions, Beverly was full to the brim, and no amount of concealing did anything to change that. Bill knew this, and was fully aware that she would be anxious about him, had known so even when she chose to ignore his calls all day. But she still didn’t want him to think she was worried. If Beverly was worried, Bill would be too, more so than he already was.

“So,” Bill began, “Do you want to start by explaining something to me? Because I got something in the mail today, Bev. Somethin’ really fuckin’ suspicious.“ 

“What the _fuck?”_ If she wasn’t panicking before, now, it was getting real and intense. “Slow down, Bill. Full story, please.”

“I got a photograph, Beverly,” Bill said, “I got a photograph of _you,_ delivered to my house. In the fuh-fucking mail-“ 

“What the fuck?” Beverly repeated, unsurprisingly more panicked than last time. She managed to keep herself composed, trying to remain mostly focused on the road whilst trying to process whatever Bill was trying to tell her. “What photograph? From who?” 

“There was no return address,” Bill explained, “There was nothing, actually, at all. A white envelope, m-my name written on the back, photo of you inside-“

“What photo?” Because that mattered, quite a lot, actually.

“A wedding photo, Beverly.” 

The silence was expected, but not appreciated by Bill, who felt he deserved answers after everything he’d put up with off of her. Beverly Marsh was by no means an easy person to have around in life, coming and going how and when she pleased, lying, scheming, forever simply disappearing. The last time she came back, Bev promised Bill that she had changed, that she wasn’t the same stupid kid she had been the last time they met, when she had simply taken off without word. 

Obviously, there was more to everything than Bill knew. He had always been respectful and understanding enough to never ask, he knew she didn’t want to share, but the mystery, at this point, was simply frustrating. Their relationship was too complex for secrets to be accepted anymore, as far as Bill was concerned at least. 

Bill Denbrough and Beverly Marsh went way back. A friendship that began in their childhood blossomed into what was definitely a pathetic excuse for a teenage romance. Their relationship, for the year it lasted, was fuelled and based off of nothing but lust and loneliness. It ended when the boredom finally hit Beverly, and she realised Bill wasn’t really who she wanted. In hindsight, she knew he’d have been better than Tom, not that it was hard to be better than him, but either way Bev knew she’d have ended up miserable. Nothing ever felt right for her, not when it came to love, maybe once or twice, but those flings were over, and she was trying not to hold on. 

When Beverly met Tom, he swept her off of her feet. They were engaged within six months of being together, and Beverly took off with him without a word to anybody. She simply disappeared with him. Bill hadn’t heard from her since. Three months ago, he received a distressed phone call from her for him to come down to New York. He caught the soonest flight he could and was with her again in a matter of hours. When Bill and Bev finally reconnected, it was as if nothing had even changed, except, as Bill was realising, everything had. 

“Oh,” Beverly replied, far too casually, “Right.” 

“Is that all you have to say?” Bill asked, “Are you seriously going to brush this one off? Do you not think I-I-I deserve an explanation?” 

“Now isn’t a good time,” Beverly shrugged, which was fair. After all, the story of her loveless marriage wasn’t going to be best told over the phone as she sat in rush hour traffic. “I’ll explain it all later, man, it’s fine.”

 _“It is not fine!”_ Bill Denbrough was not a shouter, but boy, was he shouting. Worry didn’t even cover it, and the more Bill thought about his complex relationship with Beverly, the more he realised that he didn’t know her at all. That drove him insane, mostly just because it felt unfair. Beverly knew Bill like the back of her own hand, and a late realisation that wasn’t a mutual thing could never have gone down well. It didn’t help at all that Bill had come to this conclusion in the most cryptic, messy ways possible. “Are you fucking married, Bev? Is that what I’m seeing?” 

The silence gave Bill the answer that Beverly couldn’t bring herself to. “Fucking _unbelievable,_ Bev. Are you _insane?_ When were you planning on telling me this?”

“What was the other thing?” Beverly asked, brushing off his questions. She knew she’d answer them all eventually, maybe when she worked them out herself. 

“Huh?”

“The other thing,” Bev explained, “You said there were two things. The wedding photo, I’ll tell you all about later. What was the _other thing?”_

“Bev that’s not as important-“

 _“What was the other thing?”_ She repeated, firmer. Bill sighed heavily, but evaluated his options. He knew her well enough to know that she couldn’t be forced into talking about things she did not want to talk about. 

“Stan Uris called me,” Bill stated, as if that was the end of. The name, as familiar as Bev was with it, gave her an uncomfortable shiver. By choice, she hadn’t heard from him in a while, but rarely did unless Richie was somehow involved. He would never be involved again, she knew, which was both a blessing and a curse.

“I’m sure you loved that,” Bev sneered, hoping the anxiety she felt wasn’t obvious. Bill was too oblivious over the phone, and was a little too focused on his own to care in that moment. Bev didn’t know they were in the same boat.

“He’s married, Bev,” Bill huffed, mostly due to his own disappointment. “And he said no.” Which Bill had expected, considering his past with Richie. 

“So what did he call for?” Bev asked, “Does he know about Rich skipping town?” She knew he did, Eddie had told her that when he cornered her on her lunch break that time, and then proceeded to throw twenty questions at her, none of which she answered honestly. Since then, she had made an intense and conscious effort to speak to none of them. Stan included, as nice as he was. 

“Yeah,” Bill said, “And he knows about Eddie going too. He said he needed to get in touch, with them and you, said it was urgent.”

“Did he elaborate any further?” Bev inquired, hoping that he didn’t, hoping that this was nothing to do with her, hoping that this conversation wasn’t going to add to the weight already snapping her shoulders. “Urgent? Seems pretty fucking vague. And I don’t know why he thinks we’d have heard from either one of them. I don’t expect to, for a long time.” 

She didn’t. Because Richie wasn’t coming back, and she knew so better than anyone. Bev was more than sorry about that, because she was going to miss him, and she knew the others would too. Eddie had been in bits upon finding out, somehow knowing from that cryptic voicemail it was connected to her. Her own heart had broken at the sound of it, she had never heard such fear in his voice. It was understandable though, and she had expected it. From the very beginning, it had been a waiting game, as it was with everyone Beverly Marsh crossed paths with. 

Bill was going to be next, Bev could feel it in her bones - that was partially why she was trying to ghost him again. It was for his own good, though he would never see it that way. He never liked seeing things her way, but then, knowing so little, it was hard to picture her ‘way’ at all. Hard to picture her world, at all. It was hard to picture something so complex, Bill was ready to give up trying. 

“He did elaborate, actually Bev,” Bill said, “Because someone’s looking for them. I don’t know who, oh-or why, he refused to say, but they asked about you, too.”

There was a silence, as the possibilities dawned upon her, and oh, there were many. Mostly negative, which was understandable, though incorrect. 

“And do you know what, Bev?” Bill continued, “I don’t think it’s a fuckin’ coincidence, that all of this happened today. I think there’s some warped connection between you being fuckin’ married _\- holy shit that sounds weird out loud -_ ah-and someone looking for Rich. And I think you know something. I think you know why they ran. I think you-“

“Shut the fuck up!”

“You’ve got some sick fucking secrets, Bev,” Bill spat, his rage only worsened with the release of it all. It had been burning since the photograph, and her lack of cooperation was only adding fuel. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” She mumbled, defeated. “And I don’t even know, really. If I knew where Richie was, I’d tell you. If I knew how to get in contact with him, I would. But I can’t and I don’t and-“

“But you know why he left,” Bill realised. 

“I don’t,” Bev lied, barely convincing, “I can take a few shots in the dark, no different from you or Stan. Eddie knew something. Stan clearly didn’t. If you want to play at Sherlock Holmes, be my fucking guest, but stay the fuck out of my business. _I don’t know shit, Bill.”_

“You want to repeat that to Stan when he calls you crying later?” Bill asked. “You think he isn’t going to hunt you down and give you a fuckin’ Q and A? Because that’s his plan, Bev. He thinks you know something, I think he’s right.” 

“I’m not speaking to him,” Bev scoffed, as if she truly believed that was something she could avoid. “And that doesn’t mean shit, he could tell you two and two makes five and you’d believe him. You’re delusional, I don’t know why you’re still even trying with-“

“Stop making this about me,” Bill cut in, thankful she couldn’t see his reddening face. “You’re the one he wants to speak to. You give him answers, or you give me answers.”

“If only I had answers, Bill.” She thought about putting the phone down, and it was more than tempting. 

“Listen to me, Bev, you’re in danger. Serious danger, judging from what Stan had to say. He’s worried about you, and me, and himself. He’s worried about Richie and Eddie - afraid, even. You can sit and snark at me all you want, lie to my fucking face some more, but that isn’t gonna help anybody. Our friends are gone and someone’s after you, do you think lying is a smart move right now?” 

The only thing that stopped Beverly from hanging up the phone in that moment was the shock of such a response. “I’m gonna need to know what Stan had to say.” 

“Oh yeah?” Bill hissed, “Fuckin’ ask him.” 

“I’d rather you keep playing messenger if I’m honest,” Bev mused, “Sake of ease and what not.” 

“No way-“

“Don’t act like you don’t want to speak to him,” She quipped, “I’m too busy, and if someone came to him looking for me, do you really think it’s wise that I make contact with him?” There was logic to what she was saying, but it was uncalled for. There was no threat, but she was not aware of this, and with a lifestyle like hers, combined with the secrets she had, threat was constant. 

“Fine,” Bill huffed, reluctantly yet relieved. He did want to speak to Stan, an awful lot, actually. It was almost embarrassing for a thirty year old to have such a high school crush, especially on a happily married man, but Bill had always been a sucker for the people he couldn’t have. That definitely explained his fixation on Beverly Marsh. “But we aren’t done with this.” 

“Noted,” She sighed. 

“I better see you at Book Club tomorrow,” Bill said, sounding a little softer now. He heard her chuckle down the phone.

“When do I ever miss that?” Bev said, smiling to herself despite the situation. “I’ll be there. And out for drinks after.” It was tradition, one of the few Tom let her get away with most of the time. Most. 

“Good,” Bill replied, “You have a wedding to tell me about, Mrs Marsh.” Bev hung up. She was never one for saying goodbye on phone calls, or at all, really. Bill was never shocked, if anything he was surprised she had stuck around on that call for so long. It was a rarity. 

Beverly was still driving, only seconds away from her destination when she got a second call, not from Bill this time. The name flashed up on the screen, big, bold letters. _Tom._

She let it ring until it stopped, knowing he would yell about it later and that she would tell him that she left her phone in the office again - as if that was a thing people did. Tom believed her though, or so he said. That man was a very skilled liar, and was no stranger to telling Bev what she wanted to hear in order to manipulate her all the more. She knew this. She knew all of his tricks, except maybe his latest, but she had her own to counter.

Beverly checked the mirrors before getting out of her car. She was always careful now, even going to the extreme of wearing her sunglasses to walk up to the front door of the house. It wasn’t her house, no, Beverly had not gone home yet. She had business, first.

The knock was quick to result in the door being opened, and she was greeted by one of the few people left that she could trust. “Mike.” 

“Beverly.” 

“Are you sure that you want to go through with this?” He had to ask, always. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” It was never going to be a yes. Yes would have been a lie, yes would mean that she was sure. Beverly did not know sure, she was almost a stranger to certainty, instead an old lover of chance. Her response could never be yes, but it was good enough. 

“We’ll get straight to it then,” Mike said. Beverly walked inside and closed the door behind her. She did not know how long she was going to be, just that whenever she finally did leave, things were going to bearable once again. Somehow, that felt like a lot to ask.


	4. A Filler: Brought To You By Stanpat and Bill

Stanley was restless. It was understandable, but so unlike him. In most situations, he was a man with complete control over everything, including his nerves and emotions. Of course, there were emotions and occurrences he couldn’t control, but he usually dealt with this so sophisticatedly that there was still an illusion of control and order.

Being best friends with Richie Tozier had always brought along a fair share of chaos, but nothing like this. Whatever ‘this’ entailed, Stanley did not know yet. In the past, it was always chaos that Stanley knew how to deal with, always chaos that he could either ignore or prepare for, when the chaos was entwined so deeply with strangers and secrets, Stanley wasn’t so sure he would deal with it all that well.

It was the fourth sleepless night he’d had in a row. Sleepless nights were not uncommon, restless ones were. He had gotten out of bed, careful to not wake up his sleeping wife, Patty, and was sat on the roof terrace with an emergency cigarette. Stanley Uris was not a smoker, but desperate times had taught him that having a packet under the pillow never hurt. Well, desperate times and Richie taught him that. 

There was a lot to contemplate, and Stanley found this easiest when staring up at the night sky, his phone playing some eighties ballads on a low volume, with a glass of whiskey teasing him on the table. He was restless, but he was very good at creating an illusion of peace.

The thing bothering him, above anything, was Beverly Marsh. She had ignored him all week, but it felt more personal when he had left half a dozen messages on her phone today. As if she knew. Stan had concluded that she certainly did know, maybe not that someone was after her, but something dangerous, something that would send somebody after her. Maybe the same person that had got Richie running across the country. Stan figured that made sense, and wondered if that put him in any danger. Or worse, if that put Patty in any danger. 

There was little he wouldn’t do for his friends, but there was nothing he wouldn’t do for his wife. If helping Ben meant he was going to be dragged deeper into this bullshit, he would have to evaluate how worth it that was. Patty would tell him to do it though, she always encouraged the right thing, and for some reason, as awful and confusing as it was, this felt like the right thing. 

He had yet to tell her of the incident today. Initially, he didn’t plan on telling her anything at all, too afraid of causing her more stress, but the more he thought about it the more that seemed like a stupid thing to do. Stanley never did stupid things. He considered doing them on the daily, but going through with them was a different thing entirely. Richie had been the opposite, doing something stupid every day with and without fail - like running away, for example. 

No, Stan knew he had to tell Patty everything. She would be understanding, as always, maybe worried, but that was fair. He just hadn’t had the chance that night. As soon as he returned home, he began researching. Firstly trying to find Ben Hanscom online, and then anything on Richie or Eddie. Both turned up dead ends. After that, he began trying to find something on Beverly. She wasn’t big on social media, using it once in a blue moon and having the bare minimum of photographs on there, which made digging difficult. He started looking through her friends, finding a wide mixture of people - something that struck him as strange. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until he stumbled across one profile on her friends list. Had the profile photo not included her, Stan would’ve probably scrolled straight past it, but the bright orange hair was quite hard to miss. The photograph was of Beverly and the man who’s account the photo belonged to - a tall, dark, handsome man with chiseled features and evil eyes. He was called Tommy Rogan, and worked for a business on Wall Street. The profile was private, which had limited his digging, but the photo was still visible, and from it, Stanley could tell they were a couple. 

Married, as the rings on the photo suggested.

It made his stomach churn with possibilities, and he had pinned that as the main reason for his restlessness that night. He felt like the Beverly he knew and loved was a lie, which should never have been such a shock to him, nor an abstract concept at all considering how little he knew about her. Still, it was unpleasant to think that after sleeping with half of his friends, this woman was married, and judging by the photograph, happily so. 

Stan lit his second cigarette.

Was that why Richie had left? It made sense, though it simultaneously didn’t. Richie had never loved her, a discovery like this would never hurt him enough to trigger such a wild response. He would have probably laughed, probably wanted her more if anything. Bill, Stanley hoped he knew, assumed that he would. If it was even something worth knowing - there was always the possibility that the photograph was old, and maybe a divorce had taken place. Alternatively, Stan considered he could have read the picture completely wrong, maybe it was out of context, maybe the rings meant nothing, maybe it was a facade. 

When ringing Bill after his attempts at Beverly failed, Stanley had thought about asking him, but was too afraid to bring it up on the off chance that Bill didn’t know. Bill had seemed excited to hear from him at first, something that Stanley had come to expect, really. 

At first, he had been entirely embarrassed by Bill’s obvious crush on him, cringing every time they were forced to interact and he’d have to sit and watch the guy continuously attempt to stutter out incoherent sentences. Enough time had passed that it was no longer so awkward, instead he found the crush flattering and sweet. Patty thought it was incredibly comical, prodding Stanley and saying “See, darling, I’m not the only one!” 

Patty liked Bill. Stanley wasn’t sure how comfortable that made him. He wondered if that would change if she knew everything. Bill liked Patty, too, enough to back off. Men like Bill weren’t usually stopped by spouses, but this was different. Something about the entire situation was different. Stanley couldn’t put his finger on it, and maybe that was another thing adding to the restlessness. 

The conversation with Bill was interesting to say the least, and had Bill not seemed so shaken by it, Stanley would have straight up told Patty everything, but the waver in his voice and the consistent heavy gulping only reinforced Stan’s anxieties about telling her. When she politely asked who he had been conversing with for the best part of an hour, he lied and said that it was a business associate. 

After that, Stanley had taken a very long bath with a whiskey and a novel, hoping this would take his mind off of things. It failed, and he went to bed that night defeated. Patty joined him shortly after, and he fucked her like his mind wasn’t about to explode. She came first, usually did, and he followed shortly after. It only took her ten minutes to drift into slumber, Stanley counted. Two hours later, almost present, he had gotten out of bed, poured himself the third glass of whiskey, and sat on the roof terrace.

Now, he was two cigarettes in, and the glass was half empty. 

Bill Denbrough called him just as he was about to finish it off, and most likely refill it. Stanley placed the glass down and picked up the phone. He knew, instinctively, that this would be important.

“I talked to Bev,” Bill’s voice was quiet, as if he was whispering.

“What did she say?” Stanley hoped, optimistically, that Bill was going to give him answers - ones that would ease his mind. Stanley knew, realistically, that Bill was going to give him more questions - ones that would be even harder to answer.

“You know Buh-Buh-Bev,” Bill said, “She didn’t say much. Ah-avoided everything I fuckin’ asked, lied, and then tried to play it off. She’s coming to book club tomorrow, promised me answers there.” 

“Can I come?” Stan asked. 

“Of course,” Bill replied, a little quickly, a little to enthusiastically. Stan smiled to himself. “I-I-I told her to speak to you, but she said she didn’t want to. I think it’s probably the guilt.”

“Maybe,” Stan agreed. It made somewhat sense, and he trusted Bill’s opinion on Beverly Marsh more so than anybody else’s. “But that means she has something to feel guilty about, which means she has to be tied to this.” 

“She admitted as much,” Bill told him. They were conversing as if it wasn’t three am, neither one of them bringing up the late hour, or why Bill even bothered to call at such a time. It had been a long while since Bill had spoken to Beverly, but after that conversation he had been to overwhelmed to really handle more human interaction. 

Bill handled it by getting wasted. He had intended to go out, bring some guy or girl home, and fuck away his problems. Instead, he had gotten wasted, cried, and thrown up his body weight, before going home alone. It was then that Bill decided he wanted to talk to Stan, and he had known that the other man would be up at this hour. He always was. Bill knew this because Stan had told him so many moons ago.

“I just need to know he’s okay,” Stan sighed, “I don’t trust Rich to look after himself. He’s never…I don’t think he’s ever really been alone before-“

“He isn’t alone,” Bill reminded him, cutting in. “He- Eh-Eddie’s there. They’ll take care of each other.”

“I’d still feel better if I could speak to him,” Stan said. And then an idea occurred to him. A very interesting idea.

“We’ll find them, Stan.” Bill didn’t believe himself enough to promise, but he’d have given anything to make one in that moment, for his own sanity as much as Stan’s. Bill never made false promises though. He was a lot of things, bad and good, but not a liar, not if it could be avoided. “Once we know why they left.” 

“I think I know a way to find out,” Stan confessed, his voice small as if he were afraid of the idea. “I know a guy, Bill.” 

“Care to expand on that one, duh-darling?” The nickname was ballsy. Stan smirked, rolled his eyes. He respected ballsy. “I know a lot of guh-guys too.” 

“He’s a PI,” Stan explained, “Private Investigator. I don’t know how good he is, but he charges a hell of a fuckin’ lot, so if that’s anything to go by he’s got to be.” He had told Bill of the strange man that had stopped by his office, but he left out the part about him investigating Beverly Marsh, and instead said that he had been asking after Richard Tozier - which wasn’t too far from the truth. He didn’t think it would take much for Bill to guess this was the guy he was referring to. 

“I don’t know if that’s a great idea,” Bill said, because he just had to be honest. 

“I wouldn’t suggest if I had doubts.” 

It clicked, then. Bill was smart. Bill took things in, he noticed the way people spoke, the things they said, remembered all the small things they told him. He pieced it together. “Is this the guy that came to your office?” 

The question threw Stan off, threw him into a stumped silence. The silence told Bill everything. 

“He’s ah-ah-a PI?” Bill asked, voice shaking. Stan gulped. He knew there was no back-tracking, knew that honesty was the only way forward. 

“Yes,” Stan confessed. Bill sighed down the phone, as he began to piece more of it together. A PI would only come to him asking about Beverly if he were after Bev. But why ask Stanley? “He thought I was Richie.” 

“What?” 

“Well, he thought Richie was me,” Stan began to explain, “Had a photo that Bev must have kept, kind of sexual, like he was shirtless and smoking and- anyway, you know how he told you he was Stan? Well this guy got the same info, somehow. Found my work address, office number, showed up there asking away. He knows more than I do, but he needs to find Richie anyway. Richie knows more than us all.” 

“He called you, didn’t he?” Bill asked. Richie had made one phone call, a two minute one from a burner phone to Stanley. He refused to talk about anything, only insisted that he was alright and would be alright, and wanted everyone to know he was sorry for running like that. Eddie had been in touch, only to tell Bill that he found Rich and they were safe. Nothing useful to their current predicament was acquired from those conversations.

“He did,” Stan confessed, voice wavering, “But he didn’t tell me a fucking thing.” 

Stan was met with silence, for a few seconds, until Bill found himself asking: "The PI guy, what did he know?" 

"Less than me," Stan shrugged, which was somehow accurate. Ben was just as stumped as anybody, but he was only a few days into this. Stanley still trusted him. It was a gut feeling, nothing more and nothing less. "But give him a week. I bet he could find them, Bill, I bet he could do it easy." 

“I-I don’t think they want to be found.”

“I don’t care,” Stanley said, “Richie doesn’t get to just run and- I _need him,_ Bill. He doesn’t get to run like that. We need him. _Beverly_ needs him.” 

Bill Denbrough never took much convincing, not when it came to Stanley Uris. Half an hour later, when he hung up the phone, there was a feeling in his gut that he hadn’t expected to feel that day, or for a long time: Hope. 

Hope that they were going to find Richie and Eddie. Or at least, PI Hanscom was. And that was enough for Bill - whether they wanted to be found or not.


	5. Writers Block? Never Happened.

Ben woke up at five am in a cold sweat and with an unusual feeling in his stomach, something resembling intense anxiety, something that told him bad things were about to happen, something that was beyond rational explanation. 

He was not in his own bed. In fact, he didn’t know where he was at all, hadn’t payed much attention when he had climbed into the cab with her. The woman laid beside him was called Rose, and he had met her in a bar a few weeks ago. This was their third meeting, and she was in a very deep sleep. 

The feeling in his stomach heightened when he rolled over and saw her red hair. That was why he liked her, Ben knew, she was so utterly beautiful. And such a carbon copy of Beverly Marsh. Ben knew, as soon as her name popped into his head, that he needed to leave. 

Slowly, Ben stood up. He intended to be as quiet as possible in his exit, but he discovered that was going to be quite a challenge as he fumbled blindly across the bedroom floor, feeling for his clothes. There were marks on his back, Ben could feel them, could recall her nails creating them. They stung like a bitch. Not that he wasn’t into it, the best times always left him with a physical reminder.

Beverly used to. Every time. 

Ben shivered at the memory, then pulled his tee shirt back over his head. The coat he had been wearing was somewhere in the living room, he believed. 

By the time Ben had gathered everything up from her scattered apartment, it was half past five. He left her a polite note on the kitchen table, then let himself out into the cold New York morn. The block seemed familiar, and he found himself strolling down the road without help from his phone map. The morning air and exercise would do him no harm, he figured.

The walk was therapeutic, and gave him sufficient time to go through his messages from the previous night. He hadn’t expected much, so the mass of missed calls and messages was really a shock to his system. For a minute, it reasserted his certainty that something bad had happened, but after working his way through them, Ben realised that they all came from two sources: Tom Rogan and Stanley Uris.

As far as he was concerned, no major bad news could come from either one of them. To an extent, he was right, because neither of the men had tried to contact Ben Hanscom bearing bad news. That was not to say they never would.

Tom had expressed concern that Beverly had been late home and strangely quiet, he wanted to know if Ben had found anything. Ben was still debating how honest it was safe to be with Tom. There was more to this than met the eye, anybody with eyes or ears knew that much. 

Stanley had expressed desire to meet and tell him more, which was the best news that Ben could have hoped for off of him. This wasn’t usually the way Ben did his business, and it almost felt too easy, but then again, this was no normal case. He couldn’t follow the rules this time.

Personal motivation changed everything, even if he wasn’t so sure what that motivation was. Maybe it was just seeing Beverly again, because he wanted to, even if just a glimpse, or for just a second. He needed that closure, which was new for him. 

The first thing Ben did was return the call to Stanley, knowing that would be of more benefit. He didn’t really expect Stan to answer, considering it was only just turning six, but the other man picked up almost immediately, as if he had been waiting. 

“I have an idea,” Stan opened with, “I don’t know if you’ll like it.” 

“Try me,” Ben said, pleasantly surprised about the offer. It hadn’t been the conversation he expected, but he wasn’t all that sure what he had expected to begin with. The element of mystery was everywhere.

“Richie’s apartment,” Stan said, simply, as if that explained a thing. 

“What about it?” Ben asked, confused, “What does that have to do with Beverly?” 

It was then that Stanley was reminded of Ben’s priority. His case was not about Richie, or at least, he did not know that it was. But Stan figured the investigation couldn’t go anywhere without him. He was probably right. 

“Well, we need to find him,” Stan replied. 

“I don’t have the time,” Ben huffed, “I have to focus on… I have to stay focused on Beverly. I have a client to appease, Stanley. I can’t partake in some wild goose chase for some guy that I don’t know can even help me.” 

“But he can help you,” Stan insisted, certain, “More than me. More than any other fucker you’re going to come across. Trust me on this, Ben.” 

“Do you know how long it can take to track people that runaway like that?” Ben scoffed, “You said it yourself - he doesn’t want to be found. I…I just can’t focus on that right now, it’s not worth the risk of a dead end.”

“But we’re helping each other,” Stan said, and the desperation in his voice pulled something inside of Ben. He felt guilty, then, though knew that was probably Stan’s intention. “I help you. You help me. Richie will help us both. I know it - I know it better than you!” 

There was silence as Ben pondered this. Stanley didn’t have time for that.

“How about this,” Stan began, “We go to his apartment. I talk you through some shit, we look for anything suspicious, and if there’s nothing there, we leave and forget it. If we find something that could help you find him, we pursue - sound fair?” 

Ben didn’t really have a better plan for his day. He figured it could get him somewhere, and trusted Stan in his certainty of that. “Fine. Text me the address and meet me there at ten.”

-

That was exactly what they did, only when Ben Hanscom arrived, he did not see what he expected. 

Stan was not alone, and that had not been part of the plan - in fact, it directly went against what Ben had asked of him in their first meeting. He had asked for trust, for secrecy. Letting someone else in like that was…well, it wasn’t good. Ben wasn’t an angry person though, he tried to remain composed and pleasant as he approached the two men. 

“You didn’t say you bringing a friend.” Ben’s disapproval was clear in his voice. 

“You want to know about Beverly Marsh?” Bill asked. Ben only wished he could tell him exactly how well he knew Beverly, although he wasn’t sure how true that would have been. So Ben nodded, because he did indeed want to know about Beverly Marsh - the good, bad and ugly. More than that, he wanted to know for himself, not for Tom Rogan. 

“I do.”

“Yeah?” Bill was smiling, “So do I, man.” 

“You can trust him,” Stan insisted, and for some reason, Ben believed him.

They did formal introductions after that, brief because they didn’t need to be anything more, and short because they were both conscious of the more pressing matter at hand. Bill explained that he had known Beverly since childhood, and that they had been intimate in the past - a fact that unsettled Ben deeply. Bill also explained that Beverly had run away with no trace on more than one occasion, and had only recently re-entered his life, refusing to speak of where she had gone or what had happened during her absence. She insisted on remaining a mystery, and Bill had always let her. 

After the brief summary, the attention turned back to their location, and the main reason they were there: Richie Tozier. 

Ben turned to the door first, eyeing up the lock on the door. Breaking and entering wasn’t something he was completely unfamiliar with, but it was an extreme that made him a little uncomfortable. 

“There’s a spare key under the plant pot,” Stan said. Bill was messing around with something on his cellphone, no doubt arranging a hook up for later that evening, and Ben went for the key. Ben did not know of Stan’s impulses, or anything about his OCD. It wasn’t so bad though, not like when he was a kid. Stan reached out anyway, intending to try the door three times before actually opening it. 

He pulled the handle down, counting in his head. One-

Stan never made it to two. The door clicked open straight away.

“Holy shit.“

“Trust Richie to leave his fucking door unlocked,” Stan muttered, pushing it open the rest of the way and stepping inside. 

He froze in the doorway, and this was the first sign that something was terribly, terribly wrong. His breathing seemed to stop, and Ben figured that was sign two. He stepped behind Stanley, cautious yet concerned.

And with damn good reason to be.

_“Holy shit.”_

Bill pushed through them both, sending all three of them staggering into the apartment. The living room was a fucking shit-show - the floor almost completely covered in smashed up glass, ornaments and other household objects that definitely did not belong on the floor. The coffee table, that had once sat in the centre of the room with a decorative bong on top, was now turned upside down with one leg snapped clean off. That leg was behind the smashed TV, which sat in the corner almost unnoticed. 

“We shouldn’t be here,” Ben said, and began to back out before Stanley reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Don’t.” Ben didn’t need any more convincing. He sighed, trying to dial back his panic, before considering the fact that this wasn’t the most illegal thing that he had ever done. Plus, it wasn’t like anybody else was going to come looking here. The police weren’t involved, Richie wasn’t missing. He was on the run, and Ben didn’t blame him after seeing the state of his home. Somebody was very upset with him. 

“You think somebody came looking for him?” Bill asked, which was a fair question really. This did look like the product of rage.

“Hard to say,” Ben shrugged. There were endless scenarios, really. “Did anybody hate him this much?” They began to carefully wade through the littered floor over to the door in the corner. It was closed, strangely enough.

“Hard to say,” Bill fired back, which was a fair answer, too. He tabled the knowledge about Beverly’s marriage, something he intended to soon learn more about, all three of them unaware they were contemplating that very same thought.

Ben did not think that this was the work of Tom Rogan, though. If Tom knew about the affairs, he wouldn’t have needed Ben to begin with - and he didn’t even know his fucking name anyway. For Tom to track Richie down and attack him like this just seemed so… outlandish. Ben didn’t give the thought much time, writing it off almost immediately. 

“He pissed a lot of people off,” Stan said, “But not this much. Not to my knowledge.” 

“Who did he piss off?” Ben asked.

“Exes,” Stan began to list, “His parents, his friends, drug dealers, the majority of people he interacted with.”

“Place your bets wisely, then,” Ben sighed. He hoped this was the work of a drug dealer rather than some psychotic past lover. “Did Richie have a temper? Was there any way he could have done this himself? A breakdown of some sort?” 

He knelt down slowly and picked up a photo frame from the floor. Bill and Stan watched in silence, pondering the question. Sometimes Richie could get snappy, but he wasn’t an angry guy, and he certainly wasn’t violent. This was out of character for him. But then, he was also pretty unstable, given his love of recreational drugs and constant need for attention, affection and reassurance. Maybe a mental break down wasn’t such an irrational suggestion. 

“He seemed fine a few days before,” Stan shrugged. Ben turned the photograph around to find a photograph of Richie with a skinny, wide-eyed pretty boy. He did not recognise him, but the two looked close, with the smaller man posing comfortably, arms slung around Richie, his chin sat in Richie’s curls with his tongue poking out. They had the same brown curls, though the man Ben did know seemed to have slightly lighter and shorter hair, and his faced was plastered in freckles. He wrote off the possibility of them being brothers, considered this could be a relative, but most likely a good friend. 

“He got that printed?” Bill questioned, crouching to look at the photo. 

“Huh?” Stan joined them on the floor, but his face seemed to pale a little when he saw the photo. 

“What?” Ben asked, confused as to why it held any significance at all.

“That’s Eds,” Bill explained, and Ben felt a few more pieces fall into place. “I took that ph-photo a couple weeks ago on my phone. I…I just didn’t know Richie puh-printed it.” 

Ben opened the frame, despite the glass being shattered anyway, and took it out, revealing text scrawled on the back. Ben smiled. “I don’t think he did.” 

_‘I had the best night of my life. Thank you. Love, Eddie x’_

“Sloppy,” Bill scoffed, shaking his head. Ben handed him the picture, and Bill shoved it into his back pocket. “Real sloppy.” 

“Were they…” Ben wasn’t sure how to ask if Eddie was yet another one of Richie’s lovers. The photograph, and the note on the back, seemed to insinuate so. He didn’t need to say any more though, Stan and Bill seemed to understand where his inquiry was heading.

“We don’t know,” Stan mumbled, quietly looking to Bill, who frowned.

“We do,” Bill countered, “But it was complicated.” 

“That’s not very helpful,” Ben said, standing again, “Could you be more specific? I’m trying here. I’m really trying.”

“Eddie was infatuated,” Bill began.

“Eddie was in love,” Stan corrected him, and Bill shrugged the comment off as the two also stood again. “Richie doesn’t do that shit. He liked Eddie, but I don’t think it was any different to any other hook up-“

“They ran away together-“ Bill tried to protest.

“Richie ran!” Stan cut in, “Eddie followed. And Richie fucked half his friends first, something Eddie still doesn’t know. It’s not exactly romance of the year, Bill.” 

“Eddie knows,” Bill insisted, “Richie said th-that- He said that he told Eds about us ah-and he didn’t even care ah-and…” 

Ben watched the domestic unfold, really trying to keep track and make mental notes about the situation and relationships between the group. That was proving disgustingly hard. 

“Eddie knows about Bev,” Stan explained, “But he doesn’t know it all. He thinks it was a quick, occasional thing. He certainly never knew about you. Richie tried to tell him, couldn’t bring himself to. Guilt, maybe. Embarrassment?” 

Bill was bright red, his fists clenched into tight balls.

“Can we not?” Ben asked, sensing the growing tension. 

“Yeah, Stanley,” Bill said, “Let’s not.” Naturally Bill was being defensive about Eddie, that guy had been his best friend since childhood. Eddie had only joined him in New York a couple of months ago, had only just escaped the clutches of his newly deceased Mother. Bill had never been thankful for a death before that one.

But maybe his dislike of the tension was more to do with his growing thing for Stan. He didn’t like it when they weren’t on the same page, and absolutely hated it when Stan was snarky with him. 

Stan bit his tongue. 

“Where’s this door to?” Ben asked, mostly to fill the silence. He pushed it open with one hand and watched it slowly swing to reveal a kitchen. It was maybe even more fucked than the living room, but luckily there was nothing quite so dangerous on the floor this time, glass and ornaments replaced by food and utensils. “Oh.” 

The three of them checked the drawers and cupboards in silence, and Ben slammed the last one shut in defeat before speaking up again. “Bedroom?” 

Stanley pointed to the door on the left. 

“Bathroom?” Ben questioned, and was directed to the right. He took that door, whilst Bill and Stan went for the alternative. 

“I don’t think I’ve been in here before,” Stan commented quietly as Bill pushed the door open slowly. 

“Fuck,” Bill mumbled, “Wish I cuh-cuh-could say the same.” They both let out brief huffs of laughter, stepping inside cautiously. 

There didn’t seem to be anything out of their expectations. The bed was unmade, the mirror was smashed and the wardrobe doors were open and empty. All of those were things that Richie could be accountable for. Stan wandered further in anyway, sitting on the edge of the bed. Bill followed, obediently and placed himself a fraction too close.

“You think we’ll find them?” Bill asked, quietly.

“Dead, by the looks of this place,” Stan sighed. “If whoever did this doesn’t kill Rich, Eddie certainly will if he finds out Richie fucked you-“

“Other way round,” Bill muttered, making a point of it. Stan rolled his eyes, struggling to believe him but not willing to put any more thought into the matter. “But he won’t find out, why would Richie tell him that now? Isn’t it a little too late? It’s not gonna go down well when they’re stuck together God-knows where.” 

“I don’t know,” Stan said, “Richie has a pretty big guilty conscience.” 

“Makes one of us,” Bill whispered, and Stan shot him a cold glare. It wasn’t really a fair statement. Stan had a huge guilty conscience, as did Bill himself, they were both just very skilled at hiding it. Richie was not, it ate away at him until he eventually crumbled. Stan wondered if that was the case this time round. Running was better than crumbling, he supposed.

“Don’t start,” Stan huffed, “Not right now.” 

“Tell me when,” Bill replied, and his hand placed itself on Stan’s leg. They both tensed.

-

On the other side of the wall, Ben Hanscom stood in the bathroom. He was silent, but only because he was too shocked and confused to really form any words.

It wasn’t blood. Ben knew blood when he saw it, and this was fake enough to be comical. Ben didn’t want to touch it, but judging from the appearance whatever the intruder had used was nothing more technical than dollar store halloween brand shit. But that wasn’t what mattered. Fake or not, the use of the blood said it all: this was a threat.

Ben also gathered that from the word that the cheap liquid was spelling out across the bathroom wall: RUN. 

This had not been a break in at all. This had been a warning. Ben realised that almost immediately, and felt almost stupid for not pondering that possibility sooner. They had assumed that the person responsible had torn the place up in a fit after failing to find Richie, and whilst it was a fair assumption, it was not what had truly happened. The bathroom confirmed that.

One thing Ben did not understood, and the one thing baffling him more than anything else, was the polaroid picture taped onto the shattered mirror hanging above the sink. It was the most interesting detail in the entire flat, and Ben really didn’t know how to handle it. He was half glad he’d come into the bathroom alone, reaching out to touch the photograph cautiously. 

The polaroid was of Bill Denbrough, a man only a wall away. 

Ben figured the threat was not just for Richie.

He wanted to tear the image down, tuck it into his jeans and hide it as if it had never hung there to begin with, and then figure out what it meant on his own. This was his own investigation, after all, he didn’t have to tell Bill and Stan a thing.

But that would have been wrong. And Ben considered himself to be a fair man, not telling Bill would be far more than just unfair. If Bill was in danger too, he deserved to know. So Ben yelled out to them, and his frantic voice was all they needed. Within seconds, the three of them were huddled in the bathroom, eyes glued on the mirror in equal amounts of shock and confusion.

They were silent, and remained so even as Bill reached out and snatched the photograph down, his breath speeding up as he brought it closer to his chest.

“Any idea who could have done this?” Ben asked, because he, for one, was bordering on clueless.

“Bev took that photo,” Bill said, ignoring Ben’s burning question. “I…I don’t know how anyone else cuh-cuh-could have that…I…” 

It seemed like the right time, if there ever was one, to drop the knowledge. “She’s married.” 

“We know.”

“He didn’t do this, though,” Ben said, certain. He winced as he realised that Bill and Stan had kept that information from him, and wondered briefly if there was more they knew that he didn’t, something more damaging, something Ben had not discovered for himself. 

“How can you be sure?” Stan wasn’t, despite Ben’s insistence. Stan figured it made perfect sense, but then, he didn’t know all the details. Tom couldn’t be behind it, Tom didn’t know enough - he didn’t even know Richie’s name. There was no way he could have found the apartment, or a photograph of Bill…no, that didn’t add up. Tom was clueless, as far as Ben knew. 

“Because he’s the guy paying me,” Ben confessed. Bill shivered, then stepped away. Stan sighed, but he didn’t seem all that surprised. A heavy silence followed, and Ben could feel the trust between the fading. 

“So we’re here helping you ruh-rat on our friend?” Bill asked, summarising the situation in a very unpleasant way. Ben didn’t like the sound of that narrative, mostly because it wasn’t accurate. “You gonna’ go back ’n tell him I’ve been fuckin’ her six ways from Sunday? That Richie had a good go too?”

Ben hadn’t thought that far ahead. He didn’t know what to tell Tom, because there was no way he would say anything to put Beverly in more danger, but how could he explain that to them? He didn’t even know himself. Things weren’t supposed to be this complex, Ben hadn’t quite anticipated such a spider-web of events and circumstances. He just wanted to know who else Bev had been seeing, and whether or not she was safe.

She wasn’t, he had concluded, but he couldn’t save her if he didn’t know what he was supposed to save her from, and nor could Bill or Stan. 

“I’m not doing this for her husband,” Ben said, quietly, then louder, “Christ, I didn’t even know she had one two weeks ago.” 

“You knew her?” Stan gasped, but nothing fell any more into place.

“I was… _seeing_ her,” Ben admitted, blushing. Bill and Stan exchanged shocked looks. “She ended it though, couple of months ago, and Tom doesn’t know that. He can’t. I wasn’t going to take the job, but I didn’t know it would be her I was investigating, and the money was too good to turn down. I’m not doing this to get at her, I just want to know she’s safe, and I-I don’t know, maybe see what the fuck’s going on. I didn’t think it would be this complex.” 

“Christ,” Bill mumbled, and then there was a silence. “Talk about ulterior motives.” 

“We all got our motives,” Ben shrugged. 

“We all got our secrets, too,” Bill motioned to the mirror, but mostly he was referring to Bev. 

“No more secrets,” Stan said, staring at Ben. Ben nodded, and a heavy silence followed. “We should probably head out now.”

“But what now?” 

“Now?” Ben thought for only a second, “Now we find Richie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello 2 my single reader, sorry I forgot this fic existed for like 2 months but im back and this is bout 2 go OFFFFF


	6. Richie and Eddie Finally Make A Fucking Appearance

Richie Tozier had never been in love. 

He didn’t love the girl he lost his virginity to at sixteen, or the one he fucked for six months after that. He had never loved that guy that sucked him off at the drive-in when he was nineteen, or the guy after that he definitely told he was in love with. Nor had he ever loved any of the nameless, sometimes faceless one night stands he’d had throughout his young adult life. He didn’t love Bill, his dear friend and fuck, when they occasionally slipped back to one another’s apartments. And when Bill introduced Richie to Beverly Marsh that one miserable night, when he had begun modelling for her, he did not think he was in love with her either. She would have been easy to love, so much easier, but he just…he didn’t. 

Instead, he found himself falling for little Eddie Kaspbrak, who he had met the exact same night, also via his good friend Bill Denbrough.

Eddie had been different. With Beverly, as with most of his sexual partners, it was all lust and good fun. It was easy with her, how it always was. He had intended it to be the same with Eddie, because Eddie was gorgeous and giggly and seemingly eager to let Richie take him home.

It was only when they got home that Richie had realised this would not be the same. Eddie had broken down after five minutes, when Richie’s hands wondered too far down and he started whispering things a little bit too dirty into Eddie’s ear. Humiliated, Eddie confessed that this was his first time, and to add to the awkwardness, Richie had fucking laughed at this, mostly out of shock.

“So you’re a thirty year old virgin and you’re telling me you wanna fuckin’ lose it to some stranger whilst drunk?” 

“That’s exactly what I want,” Eddie had insisted. And so they fucked, and then the morning after, Eddie had stayed for breakfast and cuddled up with him on the couch watching some fucking terrible day-time TV trying to will away the hangover. When Eddie eventually left, Richie had called Bill to break the news, and Bill had been furious with him for deflowering his friend like that, mostly because he thought Eddie was too precious and fragile for someone like Richie. Bill explained that Eddie had barely left his house due to an abusive Mother who had only just passed away, and so when Eddie called him the next day and asked him if he’d like to hang out again, Richie felt too bad saying no.

He had never intended to fall in love with the man he’d started out pity-fucking. But as he had always known, Eddie was different.

Eddie always cuddled him after sex, and made him breakfast in a morning. He cleaned up round the apartment and held genuinely interesting conversation. They had fun and Eddie laughed at his stupid jokes like they were the pinnacle of fine humour, but he also fired shots back and had a little temper that left Richie in shock, stitches and awe of him. Eddie left him sweet notes on the fridge and dragged Richie on dates despite being aware Richie was seeing other people. Eddie swore he didn’t mind, and Eddie ran across the fucking country to be with him despite believing that Richie was not in love with him.

Richie had, incorrectly, believed the same. But he was wrong, because he had never felt something so overwhelming and all-consuming before in his life. And for the first time, Richie didn’t want to fuck anybody else. Eddie was enough. Eddie was all he wanted, and that scared him as much as it excited him.

Richie Tozier was in love. And maybe that was why he decided to tell Eddie the truth. 

He hadn’t dropped the big three words yet, though Eddie had multiple times. Richie was waiting for the right moment, and couldn’t bring himself to do it before Eddie knew everything, which he certainly did not, despite what he had told his friends.

The moment had come though, or so Richie had thought, when he had drunkenly broken the news to Eddie the night before, hoping that the afterglow would make it easier for the both of them.

“I fucked Bill,” Richie had confessed, just like that. A heavy silence had followed, and Eddie seemed to freeze up beneath him, pushing Rich to loosen his grip around his waist and sit up, looking down to analyse the expression on his face. Eddie was usually easy to read, wearing his beautifully big heart on his sleeve, but in that moment, Richie was completely unable to decipher it. He was staring down at Richie, wide-eyed trying to find any hint of a lie in Richie’s face. 

“Are you joking with me right now?” Eddie asked, his voice small and afraid. “Cause that’s not funny. That’s not funny, Rich.” 

“It…” Richie wished he could say it, he wanted nothing more than to tell Eddie what he wanted to hear and then continue on as normal, whatever the fuck that was, but he couldn’t. “It was a while ago, before I knew you, and it meant nothing to either of us-“

“Tell me you’re joking,” Eddie had cut in, almost frantically. He began to crawl backwards, as if he couldn’t quite bare the touch any more. Richie understood, and resisted the urge to reach back out, pull him back in. “Please tell me you’re joking. You are, right? This is another stupid joke, isn’t it? Because you wouldn’t- He wouldn’t-“ 

“Eds…” Richie wasn’t sure how to tell him that it was all entirely gospel. He didn’t need to, thankfully, the silence did it all for him. “It was before we ever met. Before Beverly-“

“And you didn’t think to tell me this before?” Eddie asked, feeling his stomach fall even further. Nothing Richie could have said would’ve been enough to make the pain stop, though. It was something he needed to process alone, something that only time could help him to accept and deal with. Richie was never all that understanding of this type of healing though. He persisted in trying to make it better. 

“I didn’t think it mattered-“ A lie. He knew it would. “Well I did- I just- I didn’t know how to drop that into conversation! I didn’t want to hurt you- I didn’t think-“

“Do you ever?” Eddie spat, finally standing. He pulled the sheets off with him, preserving his decency whilst stripping away Richie’s - not that he had all that much to begin with. “Bill is- was- he’s my best friend! Is there anyone you haven’t fucked?”

“Stan?” 

If anything had been in his hand, Eddie would’ve probably launched it at him. That really wasn’t the answer he was looking for, in fact, he really hadn’t wanted an answer at all. “You asshole-“

“It was nothing, Eds-“

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie hissed, backing even further away. Richie crawled across the bed this time, though, nearing the edge. “Don’t! I can live with you fucking Beverly. I can live with you seeing other people and- and sleeping with them or- or whatever it is you do when you leave me. I don’t care who you want to do that with. But Bill? My best friend? Hell, my only fucking friend? I can’t live with that, Richie!”

“I’m sorry!” He meant it. “I really am! Tell me what I can do to make it up, Christ, Eds- Eddie, I’d unfuck him if I could-“

“Well you can’t,” Eddie cut in, his voice threatening to crack, “You can’t unfuck me, either. But right now, I really wish you could.”

“Don’t say that,” Richie said, because it had hurt so very much to hear, “Don’t, you don’t mean it- I’m sorry- I just wanted to be honest with you-“

“How fucking gracious of you,” Eddie snapped back, gathering his clothing from the floor. “Why didn’t Bill tell me? Does he know about us? I bet he doesn’t - bet you were too ashamed to tell him, weren’t you? I’ll bet he’d be furious if he knew what you were doing to me-“

“He knows it all,” Richie cut in, because he couldn’t bare hearing Eddie talk about the situation like that. Thing was, Eddie had known Bill knew something, because Bill was observant and careful and- well, because Bill had warned him. But Bill hadn’t told him that, so maybe he hadn’t known everything. 

Eddie recalled the warning in that moment, the concern and panic in Bill’s voice much more exaggerated as he replayed the scene in his head. Bill had said something about how Richie always hurt the people he was with, how Richie was a toxic person to get involved with because he didn’t know how to treat people and because he loved drugs a little too much. He had spoken of how promiscuous Rich could be and how he couldn’t grasp loyalty or trust. Bill had even mentioned the knack Richie had for lying, and the dark side of him constantly masked behind his charm and wit. 

He should have listened, really, it was the first time in his life he hadn’t, and look where it had gotten him.

“He knows it all?” Eddie repeated, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.

“Yes,” Richie mumbled, “But he thinks you know it all too, so please don’t be mad at him-“

“Oh I’m not mad at him,” Eddie cut in, pulling on his boxer shorts, and then jeans, “I’m mad at you! I’m fucking furious, my blood is boiling right now, Rich! And I’m hurt, and sad, and disappointed and-“

“Eds, please,” Richie pleaded, though he didn’t know exactly what for, “Don’t-“

“I’m fucking heartbroken!” 

“But I-“

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me this sooner?” Eddie asked, “Why didn’t you just- I don’t know, I don’t get it?” 

Richie gulped, knowing the truth would be hard for either of them to handle. He went with it anyway. “Because I didn’t think it mattered. Because I didn’t think you’d ever be anything more than a quick fuck. Because-“

“Is that all I was?” Eddied didn’t wait for an answer, “No, I know. I knew that, of fucking course I am.”

“No-“ Richie didn’t get chance to explain himself. Eddie didn’t owe him that, anyway. 

“I’m in love with you,” Eddie said, his voice wavering with emotion, “I know it’s not mutual, but you let me live in this delusion, you encouraged it and fed it and you made me feel like you loved me back, and you don’t, and that’s okay - that’s fine - because I knew! And you let me follow you here, begged me to come on this bullshit trip, leave behind everyone I love, and for what? To just drop a bomb like that on me? And now you expect me to…what? Continue on like normal? I can’t. I can’t do this anymore-“

“I didn’t expect that-“ Richie didn’t know what he had expected at all, really, and he was a little too torn up to recall what he had expected or hoped for. “I just-“ 

“Leave it out,” Eddie sighed, pulling his shirt back on, “I’m going for a walk.” 

-

Eddie was gone for three hours. Richie began to fear that he wouldn’t come back, but that was irrational because Eddie always did, he loved him too much, and he relied on him too much. Eddie didn’t really know how to be independent after spending a lifetime in the same four walls with the same controlling woman, so following Richie out there was the riskiest and boldest thing he had ever done. Now it was only a regret, and that killed them both.

Eddie understood that coming with Richie meant staying out of contact with the people they loved. Richie didn’t know that Eddie had already broken that rule, but he had realised, upon Eddie walking out in such a state, it would most likely be breached that day.

And it was, because Eddie didn’t know who else to talk to.

Instinctively, he began tapping Bill’s number into the payphone, but Bill was part of the problem, because even if Bill assumed Eddie knew he hadn’t spoken to him about it, and he was much too fragile to bare a conversation with Bill in that moment. Then there was Beverly, but that off limits, and Eddie understood that.

He had never been particularly close with Stan, but he knew that Stan knew Richie better than the others, and he knew that he could trust Stan more than the others, and most importantly, Richie hadn’t put his dick in Stan, because he was married and loyal and sweet and straight.

So Eddie tapped in his number and waited. The pick up had been instant, and Stan had sounded absolutely over the moon to hear Eddie’s voice, even when Eddie insisted they had to make it quick because he was low on change. 

“Richie fucked Bill,” Eddie told him, and his voice cracked as he did so. Stan sighed.

“Bill fucked Richie, actually,” Stan said, and then chuckled to himself. Eddie did not find this funny in the slightest, and was half-tempted to hang up there and then, but then Stan cleared his throat and continued, “Sorry. That was uncalled for. Are you okay?”

“No,” Eddie weeped, “I want to come home.” Though he wasn’t quite sure where qualified for home anymore.

“Where are you now?” Stan asked, because that was everything they needed to know. Eddie knew that he wasn’t supposed to tell, that telling was the worst thing he could do to Richie, because Rich was in life-threatening danger, but Richie had done the worst thing he could have done to Eddie. So maybe fair was fair.

“Somewhere in Indiana,” Eddie confessed, “I don’t remember what the town is called. We’re only stopping by.” 

“Indiana. Right.” 

“Richi wants to go to LA,” Eddie explained, “We’re slowly making our way. Buses and shit.” 

Stan chuckled, “LA? Is that really where you want to be?” 

“I don’t know where I want to be anymore,” Eddie whispered, because he was afraid to really hear it out loud. Eddie did know where he wanted to be: in an ideal world, cuddled up in that dog-shit motel room with the love of his life, but this was no ideal world. 

This was a twisted world, that gave him a dead dad, that allowed his Mother to abuse and lie to him, that finally gave him somebody to love only to take them away, to have it unrequited, to have that person hurt him all the more. And Eddie couldn’t bare that, he couldn’t bare to stick around Richie.

“Come home, Eddie,” Stan said, and they both knew it wouldn’t take much more convincing, “I can send you the money for a ticket. Don’t even worry about it. Richie can cope alone.”

Neither of them believed that. 

“I don’t want to leave him, Stan,” Eddie sobbed, because he really didn’t, “I love him.”

“I know,” Stan sighed, “Do you think he loves you back?” It was a cruel question, really.

“No,” Eddie admitted, despite the shame of it. Crueler still, Stan did not correct him. 

“Come home, Eddie,” He repeated. And that was all the convincing he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is adored! im really gonna try n make the updates more frequent but im working on so much atm that I always kind of slack on this one, my apologies :(


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